


The Frayed Ends of Sanity

by jensmishiel, lordofthepotatoes, winchesterimpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Castiel and Mental Health Issues, Codependency, Declarations Of Love, Destiel - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Gangs, Hate Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Past Child Abuse, Psychos in love, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Serial Killer Dean, Serial Killers, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jensmishiel/pseuds/jensmishiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthepotatoes/pseuds/lordofthepotatoes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesterimpala/pseuds/winchesterimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backed by tragic childhoods, Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester meet when they're incarcerated in the same center for the mentally ill. Their first meeting ends up unfavorably, though when they learn they have a lot more in common than they initially believed, they start down a road of violence, love, codependency and mayhem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Lawrence State Hospital.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends. This little story here is going to be a bit on the dark side, and is going to have a lot of triggering content. Both my good friend (lordofthepotatoes) and I (swannsongg) are writing this together, so we hope you enjoy it and we will add more tags should any more trigger warnings be brought up. So, here starts the wild ride that is our story. Enjoy!

Waiting. That's all Dean Winchester seemed to be doing lately.

 

Waiting for police interviews and court sessions.

 

Waiting around in a correctional centre, in a cell of his own, for his brother to come visit him every now and again.

 

Waiting while on a suspiciously long bus ride as he was transferred to another building ‘more suited’ to his needs.

 

And now he was waiting outside an office with two huge men in clean white shirts placed at either side of him.

 

He’d gotten used to the waiting. But that didn’t mean to say it had made him any more patient.

 

For a man that was used to getting things done quickly, this was a stark change that made him really rather pensive and down in the mouth, especially at this hour of the morning.

 

The door to the office finally opened, the hinges of the door squealing as they collided together echoing right down the empty hall. A girl in a long white coat and contrasting bright red hair that draped over her shoulders stepped out and peered around.

 

“Dean Winchester?” She asked the men at either side of him but Dean was the one to do the answering.

 

“That’s me.” He smiled smugly, going to get to his feet with a puff while the other two stood. “Real chatty couple of guys you got here.”

 

The woman pursed her lips, slipping her hands into her pockets. “Now, Dean, you’re not gonna cause any problems for us today, are you?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Dean promised, raising his right hand with another handsome smile. “I could just really kill for something to eat, y’know?” He winked, clicking his tongue, as one of the large men when to lead him, still hand cuffed, into the office.

 

The two men that escorted him pushed him down onto a chair in front of, yet another, white object; a shiny, new looking, desk with a reflective surface. It sort of reminded Dean of a rectangle shaped ice skating rink. But as he waited for the red headed woman to sort out her notes and chat in hushed tones to the monstrous looking men, he had a good look around him.

 

The room was small. It had one square window that looked onto a grass pitch, rounded off by high gates that almost reached the sky, topped with a sharp rack of barbed wire. No one was escaping this joint anytime soon. That was a half comforting thought, because by this stage, Dean was ready to settle in one building for good.

 

He let his eyes wander over the white walls, the white cabinets, white files, white chairs – everything was so bright in comparison to the dark prison he’d just come from. It was giving him a headache.

 

The only things that weren’t white in there was the wilting fern shoved up by the window, desperate for the days light to hit its browning leaves and a framed picture of the institute with the title:  _ Lawrence State Hospital _  written underneath. 

 

“I’m Doctor Milton.” The red head was suddenly in front of him again, lowering herself onto her chair. Dean raised a cuffed hand, waving with a flick of his wrist.

 

“Good to put a name to a pretty face.”

 

“Now, Dean, why don’t you start off by telling me why you think you’re here?” She seemed to dismiss his tight smile and cocky demeanor easily. But Dean was determined to break her down and at least get a rise out of her. He hadn’t ended up in a mental institution for being cooperative. 

 

“Well,” Dean cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair a bit, peering over the desk at her notes. “I dunno. What’s it say there?” He asked, running his tongue along his bottom lip as he brought his eyes up again to meet hers.

 

Doctor Milton watched him carefully for a few long seconds, before glancing down at her notes again. “It says a few things here. A few rather concerning things, Mr Winchester.” She looked at him again. “It says you’re belligerent, risk of being violent, uncooperative, resentful in attitude-”

 

“Really? That’s all?”

 

“No, that’s only your log from today.” Doctor Milton said, seeming unconcerned. “You and I both _know_  the reason why you’re here. But I’d like you to tell me.” 

 

“Where do you want me to start? – hey, any chance I could get a smoke in here-”

 

“Dean.” Doctor Milton clicked his attention back with the snap of her fingers.

 

“This is fucking stupid.” Dean huffed a laugh. “Why would I tell you if you already know? What kind of mind game is that? Like if I admit it I’ll suddenly see the error in my ways?” He asked, brows raised, before he slumped back in his chair. “And people are saying _I’m_  the crazy one.”

 

“Fine. You’ve been convicted of murder of the first degree on thirteen separate occasions. You’ve been suspected of killing and torturing many more. You’ve got a long history of DUI’s, drunken disorderly charges - there’s a whole list here of substance abuse and assault cases. And this is all not to mention, by the way, the gang involvement.”

 

“Don’t insult me. I wasn’t in a gang.” Dean tisked, shaking his head. “That’s the family business you’re talkin’ about, Doc.”

 

“Whichever way you want to put it, Mr Winchester, you’re here on the grounds that the court thinks you’re mentally ill.” The Doctor said, cocking her head a little as she spoke, dark eyes narrowing. Dean was more focused on the sun finally breaching the high wall in front of him. It was starting to warm his face. “- Dean. I asked you a question – why do you think they might think that?”

 

“Think what?”

 

“That you’re mentally ill.”

 

“Oh.” Dean let out a breath, pursing his lips. “Why don’t you refer back to that long list of bullshit you just spouted my way? You’d waste less time.”

 

“You know, this attitude isn’t going to get you very far in here, Dean. It’s not prison. We don’t tolerate uncooperativeness the same way-”

 

“Doctor Milton, do you know who I am?” Dean cut her off, tired now. Tired of fucking around all day on buses before the sun had even got up. Tired of being uncomfortable in handcuffs. “You seen me on the TV, didn’t you? All over the news. The papers. And you’re gonna sit there and threaten _me_ because I’m not telling you what you wanna hear?” He blinked. “I’ve killed people for asking me to do a lot less. Now,  'you and I both know',” Dean mocked, smile returning, “I’m not crazy. Ya’ll just don’t know what to do with me anymore.”

 

“I think you’ll find that’s about to change.” Doctor Milton said leaning on the desk as she stared back at him. “You’re not the only person in here with a huge ego and a history of murder. I’ll see you at group session.”

 

*

 

Dean was given a brief tour of the institute not so long after that. It was small compared to the prison he’d just come from. Some might even call it cosy. There was a rec room at the front of the building, complete with nurse’s station that was sealed off with a window of glass. A television that hung from the wall, locked up in a mesh caged box. There were tables with various board games and card games laid out. Three sofa’s in the middle of the room, looking as depressed and deflated as Dean felt as the tour went on.

 

Down from that was a room with chairs all around in a circle. He guessed this was where their group session would be. There wasn’t much to this room; just a storage closet at the back and a couple of motivational pictures adorning the walls. Dean found it pretty cringe-worthy and slightly ironic. Imagine telling a couple of serious law breakers to ‘ _be the best you, you can be_ .’ That sort of called for trouble. 

 

After that, he was given his institute issued uniform that basically consisted of a grey sweater and sweats. There Dean was going to go guessing it’d be white, like everything else so far in this place. He was left in a room with one bed while the staff worked out where he would be best placed.

 

Dean could give them the answer to that right now if they’d asked him. He’d be best suited back in his condo in Costa Rica. But he figured he wouldn’t be seeing that place again for a very long time.

 

*

 

Some hours later, after Dean had had himself a nice nap on a cold steel bed, he was collected by a nurse with eyes that seemed too big for her small face. She held the door open for him as he sauntered out with his hands in his pockets. Though, he felt free to walk alone, he was still being followed by the two big men from this morning.

 

“So it’s share and care time, right?” Dean asked the nurse, who’s heels were clicking along the corridor loudly as she lead him to the room he’d been shown earlier.

 

“It sure is, Dean.” She sang, not turning to look at him. “Have you been to a group session before?”

 

“Prison wasn’t too big on it, so no.”

 

The room was already full when Dean arrived so he took the only seat available beside a guy with fair hair and a lackadaisical look about him, slumped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets.

 

“Thank you, Rebecca – everyone, this is Dean. He was just transferred this morning so can we all make him welcome?” Doctor Milton asked, but she was answered with silence. “Boys, c’mon. Don’t we all remember our first day?” Someone shifted but that was the best she was getting from anyone in this room. “Why don’t you tell them about yourself, Dean?”

 

“My name’s Dean. I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets and long walks on the beach-”

 

“I’m going to remind you of that talk we had this morning, Mr Winchester. About cooperation.”

 

Dean stared at her, sealing his lips shut with a smile. “Doctor Milton, y’know it does things to me when you get all assertive-”

 

“That’s enough. Someone else – what about you Fergus?”

 

“It’s Crowley. And I’m fine. Thank you for you asking.” While they spoke, it gave Dean the chance to look around the room. There were around ten other guys in here, some older than him, some younger and thus far he wouldn’t have pegged any of them as mentally unstable.

 

He’d said that about himself too, yet here they all were sharing group session.

 

No one really seemed to stand out, until his eyes caught a pair of blue ones staring relentlessly back at him. Even as Dean narrowed his eyes in response, the other didn’t look away. In fact, his expression didn’t change at all.

 

“The fuck are you looking at?” Dean piped up in the middle of the session, cutting some guy off from griping in Doctor Milton’s ear about how the system hated him and he was a good guy, really, that girl had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time-

 

“Dean.”

 

“Someone get the guy a camera, think he’s star struck.” Dean snorted, continuing to stare back. Whatever he did today, he wasn’t going to back out of the silent war he’d started with this guy.

 

“Castiel, why don’t you tell the group how you’ve been feeling?” The guy, Castiel, didn’t answer. Just glared. No hint of anything on his features. It was infuriating.

 

“Stop fuckin’ staring at me, man.” Dean warned him, but Castiel stared on. Face totally unchanged. Honestly, Dean was starting to feel the prickle of goosebumps rising over his shoulders. Was this guy trying to intimidate him? Or was he really just that crazy he didn’t know what he was doing? He looked like a mixture of both. His eyes hooded, lips pursed in a straight line.

 

This seemed to get the other guys in the room going, chuckling quietly like they knew something that Dean didn’t. That just wasn’t going to fly.

 

Doctor Milton called for the dynamic duo of a code team that seemed to be following Dean like a shadow since he’d stepped foot in this place. But that didn’t stop him. Or Castiel.

 

But it then became evident that Dean was, in fact, losing their little competition as the longer Castiel stared, the hotter his temper became and the next thing he knew he was being wrestled back into his seat by two sets of chubby hands.

 

That was how Dean ended up spending his first night at a mental institution in solitary confinement. Turns out this place was nothing like a prison at all, and sedation really was the best way to determine the outcome of a silent staring competition.

 


	2. Group

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the short chapter. In time, I promise I'll write more. Regardless, hope you enjoy!

White, white, white.  
  
That was Castiel Novak's life on and off for as long as he could remember. White walls. White floors. White uniforms. White pills. White everything.  
  
Sure, he hadn't always stayed in the same facility, but one thing Lawrence State had in common with the rest was the white.  
  
Castiel was a strange case, a tough nut to crack, if you will. He had been at LSH for 5 years now, and he had yet to say a word to anyone beyond the filth spewed from his mouth during one of his infamous “violent outbursts.”  
  
He didn't really understand why he was made to participate in group, he never spoke, and he often caused trouble for the other patients, setting off various reactions ranging from rage to paranoia, once being attacked by schizophrenic patient who claimed Castiel was attempting to steal his soul via his “soul penetrating gaze.” But, still. He was made to join, every day, same time, in a white room, in his white clothes, locked in behind a white door.  
  
It was all so routine, all so bland, and it left Castiel with plenty of time to think, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Left to his own devices, Castiel often day dreamed, and while most people daydreamed about their wedding day, a crush they had, or one day being free from their meaningless, dead-end job,  Castiel has other fantasies. Fantasies that had nothing to do with sunshine and sweet first kisses. Fantasies of pain, of rough sex, tears, blood. Fantasies that had become realities, resulting in his admittance to the Godforsaken hospital.  
  
It wasn't that Castiel was a particularly violent or malicious person, he just had urges. Urges like anyone else had. Urges that almost cost him his life.  
  


These urges came and went, though. He felt as if he had two people living inside his body. Two souls, one fractured, one pure, forced into a vessel not strong enough to contain them both. One was vicious, he was who came out when Castiel became violent. He hated everyone and wanted to watch the world burn. The other, he was quiet. He was calm. He wasn't what Castiel would describe as “kind” or “remorseful” in anyway, he was just mellow. A silent observer.

  
It was funny, in a way, how his disorders that caused him to take the lives of not only his parents, but a group of kids from his previous high school, also saved him from receiving the death sentence, which the DA desperately was aiming to get him. He was deemed unfit to stand trial, and shipped away to hell on Earth, aka- Lawrence State.  
  
The day he met the man with the green eyes was a day he would never forget. The moment the man walked in, something deep inside Castiel told him he didn't like him. He could feel the fractured part of his soul tell him to detest the new member of their group, and after the man with the freckles spoke for the first time, even Cas' pure side disliked him.  
  
He stared, as he always did. Big, blank blue eyes taking in every detail of the man, who he learned name was Dean, as he spewed bullshit out of his mouth. He knew the type. Loud, obnoxious, narcissistic, a dude with a serious God complex. He hated him. He reminded him of his father.  
  
Dr. Milton looked panicked when she resorted to calling in the code team for assistance with Dean, their new, macho and loud mouthed group mate, and Castiel simply tilted his head as Dean was forced back into his seat, blue eyes bleeding intimidatingly into green, none of them willing to tear their gaze away from the other, staring at each other as if they were both hunting one another, daring the other to make a move first. Even when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the very thing that drove the lot of head cases in the facility to madness Dean's eyes never left his. Not until stuck with a needle like a wild animal, vivid green eyes fluttering shut.  
  
It came as no surprise to him when Dean had become irritated with his staring, as most people often did. If he were the type of man to show emotion, he might have chuckled. First day and he already got the dick wad sedated. Thrown out like a piece of trash, and that was enough to satisfy his fractured soul.  
  
While Castiel was feeling mildly triumphant, Dean getting thrown out though caused a ripple effect with the other patients.  
  
“Lookie here, first day and angel already got the GQ model tossed out.” Crowley, a short, stocky man with a Scottish accent quipped.  
  
“Fergus, that's enough. Now if we could all just-” Dr. Milton started, being interrupted not to long after.  
  
“It's _Crowley,_ you uneducated swine!” The Scot exclaimed, standing abruptly, causing his chair to screech across the floor in an ear shattering move.  
  
“Show her some fucking respect, before I beat it into you!” Another patient, Adam Milligan, younger than the rest but no less aggressive, yelled.  
  
“He's a demon! His eyes- they're black!” Another patient yelled, standing quickly from his chair and lunging at Crowley.  
  
And just like that, group was over. Dr. Milton calling in security to restrain the now rowdy bunch before her or any other patients became injured. All the while, Castiel stayed firmly seated, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his fractured soul telling him to hurt someone. To jump on them and smash his fist into their skull until he felt it collapse, but his pure soul, in part with his medication, winning the mental tug of war, willing him to remain stoic and unaffected by the chaos surrounding him.  
  
He felt a pair of gentle hands on his arm, causing him to slowly avert his eyes up. Dr. Milton was talking to him, saying something but he couldn't comprehend it. It was easier to shut everything out when things became overwhelming.  
  
Dr. Milton pulled Castiel up with a grunt, the brunette's expression unchanging as she led him out of the room to bring him back to his room, insisting to the guards that he didn't need sedation. Castiel had never laid a hand on her before, and she doubted he ever would. She gave him his space when he needed it, didn't shove his medication down his throat, and tried to include him in group activities despite the other patient's general dislike of him.  
  
He was led past the common area, waiting as Dr. Milton pressed her key card against the locked door leading into the long, very white hallway where all the patient's rooms were.  
  
With a loud buzz, they were granted access and they started their journey down to his room. Normally, the doors were left open, and patients were allowed to come and go from their rooms during the day unless either they had to be sedated or they were on lockdown, which was what was currently happening.  
  
The patients were all riled up now, and add a cup of rage into a pot of mentally unstable criminals, and you had yourself a recipe for disaster. The patients needed time to calm down, some needed sedation to wear off, and they would most likely be free to roam after dinner time, which Castiel was completely fine with.  
  
Castiel's room was the the last one at the end of the hall on the left side, which made the walk there seem much longer than it actually was, the hallway seeming endless. The stuff of nightmares. Once to his room, he stepped inside and turned on his heel, standing like a statue, staring blankly at Dr. Milton.  
  
“I'm sorry we have to do this, Castiel. You know the drill. I'll see you at supper, okay?” She said, offering him an apologetic smile before the door closed, leaving him staring at a the back of it. It was white. He stood there for a few moments before he decided to make the best of his time alone. He was allowed books, which he was thankful for, and so he turned finally and padded over to his single bed, sitting down on the stiff mattress and crossing his legs, picking up the book that he left on the perfectly made bed, the one he had been reading before he was called to group, opening it up to view black words typed on white paper.  His sheets were white. His pillows were white. His blanket was white. And yet, all he could think about was green.

 


	3. Staring Contests

Dean’s first night at the institution had not gone as he’d initially planned, but if anything, he did have himself a good night’s sleep. That was probably thanks to sedation from the day previous.

 

Solitary confinement was much the same in Lawrence State, as it was in another other facility Dean had been in. It was completely empty, save for the bed pushed up against the wall. The only real difference here was the padded walls.

 

Rebecca came to collect him, all of an hour later, after he’d woken up. The room was still pretty much in darkness, so Dean had come to the conclusion that it couldn’t be much later than seven am.

 

Why they insisted on rising everyone at the crack of dawn really was beyond him. The people in here were edgy enough as it was without being up before the sun everyday.

 

He was allowed to take a shower, supervised of course by Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the institution's double act code team. He wondered when he was just going to be left alone to his own devices – but that didn’t seem likely anytime in his near future.

 

After his shower and he changed into a clean uniform, he was escorted to the nurses station in the rec room where a queue of inmates had already formed. They had all been summoned, like him, for their daily medication it seemed.

 

Before his nurse, Rebecca, was able to walk away, he caught her arm, stirring the attention of the code team again but he dropped her arm with a tisk a second later. “Calm down, boys. Just asking her a question – what’s going on here?”

 

Rebecca looked a little started, eyes a little wider than normal, if that was possible, before she cleared her throat and gave him a curt nod. “It’s medication time.”

 

“Medication? What sort of medication?”

 

“Just standard medication. Nothing you need concern yourself with.” She said, patting his arm before sauntering off to go and join her fellow nurses behind the safety of their glass window.

 

Dean watched her go. He wondered if she’d have touched his arm so patronizingly had they been outside the high walls of LSH. Had the hospitals too biggest hench men not been following him around like a bad smell.

 

“When’re you two gonna stop stalking me, anyway?” He asked, hands slumped in his pockets, not bothering to look over his shoulder. They knew who he was addressing.

 

“When we know you’re gonna start behaving yourself, Mr Winchester.”

 

“I am behaving myself.” He pursed his lips.

 

“You’re not special, sunshine.” Came the voice of a smaller man in front of him. Dean recognised him suddenly from the twang of his accent. “We’ve all had to deal with the watch dogs.” He turned, hands pushed into the pockets of his house coat. “A word to the wise: The sooner you drop the haughty attitude, the sooner they leave you alone. Understand?”

 

Dean watched him with a bemused smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Fergus.”

 

“Crowley.” He corrected before he was called forth to collect his pills, lips twisted up into a smug little smirk. One that suited him so well, Dean thought.

 

Soon after, it was Dean’s turn to down his meds and then he was set free for an hour in the rec room to ‘do as he wished’. But doing as he wished seemed to consist of watching the TV, reading or playing one of those weird board games already set up.

 

He glanced around aimlessly, looking for something that might give him some sort of form of entertainment before he settled on just looking out the window. It seemed as though it was going to be a nice day for mid-fall. The sky, though still tainted with shades of purple, was free of clouds and other blemishes. When the sun finally did come out, the people beyond the wall were in for a treat.

 

Dean missed the simplicity, in times like this, of sitting on the roof top of his apartment building in centre of Manhattan, couple of beers between him and his brother, watching the city rush by on a quiet summer’s day.

 

The more Dean thought about the laziness of his summers in city, the more he missed the old days; the days when his father was still alive and took care of everything to do with the family business. Dean could fuck off and do as he pleased for a few days without so much as an eyelash being batted.

 

He missed the freedom that came with being a boy with a powerful father.

 

Dean turned then, sick of dwelling on his own thoughts, and found another familiar face of one of the guys from group.

 

Castiel.

 

Now, that was a distraction he’d welcome with open arms.

 

Dean, being Dean, traipsed over, stopping right by Castiel’s table, looking down at him with a tight smile, hands casually lain in his pockets. Maybe Dean took a lot of pleasure in being a tormentor of the highest degree. Maybe he just wanted to see how far he could push the guy until he snapped. “Not gonna indulge me in another staring contest?” He asked, sliding into the empty seat in front of him.

 

Castiel remained silent, narrowing his eyes at the board game laid out before them.

 

“You better be deaf, buddy.” Dean murmured, tapping the board game firmly to get his attention, blue eyes blinking up slowly. “I’m talkin’ to you.”

 

Again, no answer.

 

Dean was probably going about this the wrong way because no sign of emotion or expression crossed the other man’s face.

 

It’d make a dead man shiver – the way those eyes spoke a thousand more words than Castiel would ever need too.

 

Dean leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “You stop staring at me, understand? Or do you want it in Spanish?”

 

No answer. Dean really wasn’t surprised at this point.

 

“You’re a contrary little fucker, aren’t you?”

 

Not even a twitch passed Castiel’s features.

 

“Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll get a couple of pretty words out of those luscious lips sooner or later.” He winked, licking his own lips slowly before he banged down hard on the table suddenly with his fist, in the hopes of making the guy jump ten feet out of his skin.

 

Sure, it startled a few of the other inmates. Made one yelp, and cover his ears with a whimper. But the one he wanted to strike fear in only stared back, eyebrow slightly raised now.

 

That was something at least.

 

“You-”

 

It seemed then that Dr. Milton had appeared, clip board in hand, staring between the two of them.

 

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Dean snapped, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against his chair again, watching Castiel through narrowed eyes.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Alright, well, either you’re oblivious or I am.” Dean countered, eyes still attached to Castiel’s.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with Castiel.” Dr. Milton said again, looking at Dean now, though he refused to break eye contact with his component.

 

Dr. Milton let it continue all of ten seconds more before she cleared her throat and leaned on the table, forcing Dean to look at her as she peered between their line of vision. “I’d like a word with you.”

 

“Talk then.”

 

“Privately.”

 

Dean breathed through his nose, looking around her to Castiel again. “Don’t you worry, I ain’t done with you yet.” He winked, pushing himself up out of his chair as he went to follow the doctor, red hair swooshing elegantly behind her.

 

She brought him to a small enclave just a few doors down from her office, gentle calming aura she usually emanated, evaporating up into the ceiling.

 

“Dean, I want you to leave Castiel alone. Stop trying to rile him up.” Dr. Milton said with a firmness to her voice Dean had no idea she’d had.

 

“Didn’t do anything.”

 

“You did. You’re trying to get on his nerves.” She said, eyes wide and serious. Dean breathed through his nose – why did this feel like high school all over again? “He’s been having a good spell.”

 

“A good spell?”

 

“Yes. He’s been improving. I don’t want for that to change. For his own sake.”

 

“Don’t tell me he’s a secret Hulk?” Dean snorted in amusement before his brow furrowed when he saw that his Doctor was far past the joking around stage. If they’d even had that stage.

 

“Castiel is prone to violent outbursts.” Doctor Milton informed him simply. “For your safety, as well as his own, I’d ask you to stop. Or we’re going to have to transfer you again. And I’m certain you don’t want that.”

 

“I’ve gotta be honest, Miss Milton, I’m sensing an awful lot of one-sidedness here.” Dean commented, reaching out a finger to flick her hair out of the way to look at her shiny badge displaying her name. “Why am I getting shit on for something he started?”

 

“Castiel has been here a very long time. You’re new. He’s entitled to look. He’s entitled to have an opinion on someone entering the confines of his home. He would have stopped had you paid him no attention.” Said Dr. Milton, seeming un-irked by the way Dean’s eyes searched her face.

 

“Still don’t see how that’s fair. He was making me uncomfortable.” Dean knew all too well how the system worked by now, a smile even found his lips as his words passed them.

 

“If it’s really making you that uncomfortable, Dean, you shouldn’t have gone looking for trouble this morning.” She reminded him with a raise of her sleek eyebrow. “Now, I’m telling you. Stop it. Leave him be. I don’t care who you were or who you are now. You’re in _my_ institution. And you’re going to do what I tell you.” She threatened.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean smirked boyishly, looking down at her with intent to intimidate, but it seemed as though Dr. Milton wasn’t in the mood for furthering the conversation. She stepped off back down the hall, leaving Dean in a whirlwind of her perfume and the loud sound her heels made as they hit the floor.

 

All in all, as cocky as Dean Winchester was, what she had said had left him with a thought.

 

Who was this Castiel?

 

He didn’t seem like the violent type. Dean was a violent type.

 

Then again, what people saw with Dean was what they got. He was boisterous and loud and sickeningly over confident sometimes. The very type of person someone would expect to go around picking fights.

 

Castiel on the other hand was silent. And now that Dean thought about it, that was much more dangerous.

 

Castiel was unpredictable.

 

Dean had no idea what the guy had done to wound himself up in here, but he very much intended on finding out, whether Dr. Milton would allow it or not.

 


	4. Rubber eggs and colored pegs.

Same shit, different day.  
  
Wake up 6 am. Make bed. Shower. Breakfast. Meds. Chores, for those “stable” enough to do them. Free time.   
  
Same routine, so mundane that Castiel suspected any sane person would have already blown their brains out.   
  
He didn't require being woken up by the nurses as they other patients did. It was almost as if his body has become accustom to being up so early, his inner clock waking him up precisely 5 minutes before 6, giving him time to stretch, make his bed, and be standing at the door waiting patiently for someone to come open it for him to start his day.  
  
A kind, eccentric nurse named Charlie was the one to get him that morning. Castiel was fond of her, and she never lost her patience with him when he never spoke back to her, instead staring at her with curious blue eyes.   
  
With the click of a lock, his door was open, a smiling, bright eyed Charlie greeting him at the door, her fiery hair a pleasant contrast to the endless white that filled Cas' daily life.  
  
“Mornin', Castiel.” She said cheerfully, stepping aside to let Cas out of his room without being in his personal space. He appreciated that.  
  
He didn't reply, his eyes trained on hers for a couple of seconds in acknowledgment, his lips pressed into a hard line before he turned his head, averting his gaze down the endless hallway as the pair sauntered their way to the “cafeteria” aka a bland, white room with white tables and white chairs, where the patients ate on white trays with white plastic cutlery.   
  
“Enjoy your meal, Castiel!” Charlie grinned enthusiastically, leaving Cas to his own devices as she headed off to round up some more patients. He scanned the room, eyes landing on his preferred table in the back, strolling over and taking a seat, clasping his hands together and resting them gently on the table, staring blankly ahead as his fellow peers stood in line to be served.   
  
He could sense eyes on him, and he knew it was the guards. They were always itching for an opportunity to pin an patient down and call the code team to sedate them.   
  
Thankfully for him, Dr. Milton told them to leave him alone. If he wasn't hurting anybody, then there was no need to take action. She was aware of his refusal to eat, and even though the behavior wasn't encouraged, nobody wanted to risk triggering him, so they stuffed him full of pills and nutrition supplements and turned the other cheek when he felt like being difficult.  
  
Breakfast was gross. He refused to eat it. Some rubbery, florescent yellow globs that passed for scrambled eggs, milk he was sure passed its best before date, a bruised banana, and a piece of slightly burnt toast.   
  
“Nourishment for the day.” The doctors would say when he refused to eat. After all, he all needed it to grow big and strong for his bright future, right?  
  
Castiel didn't complain, though. All things aside, he woke up feeling indifferent. He wasn't necessarily pleased, but he was far from feeling the tell tale signs of an “episode.”   
  
After breakfast, he swallowed down his plethora of medication. An anti-psychotic, a mood stabilizer, an anti-depressant and various vitamins that he requires for his lack of food intake, as refusal to eat was expected from him.   
  
On the rare day, the hospital would have something half edible. He was fond of the meatloaf and the macaroni and cheese. They made him happy.   
  
After breakfast he wandered off to hang out in the rec area. Normally he would go off to his room and get lost in the endless words of a good book, but the staff was doing their weekly room sweep, searching for hidden pills, homemade weapons, things of the sort that patients might have stored in there during the week. Most of the times the searches would come up empty but they couldn't be too careful. He wasn't trusted with chores should he have an outburst and harm another patient or staff member, and that suited him just fine because it required socializing which clearly, was not his forte. So that left him with the rec area.  
  
He entered the room and ambled on over to a lone table, pulling the white chair out and planting himself in it, a colorful board catching his eye.   
  
He looked down at the board in front of him. It said “Sorry” on it and had little strange shaped pegs, varying from the color red to blue, and 2 small stacks of cards sitting in the middle of it. He didn't often play games so he was perplexed, head tilting and eyes narrowing in concentration.  
  
When Castiel was daydreaming, concentrating, or reading, he easily shut out the world around him, nurses and guards often having to shake him out of his state of mind to get him from room to room. It was because of this that he didn't realize he was being spoken to until a fist slammed down on the table, shaking the small strange shaped pegs and causing the neat stack of cards to collapse.   
  
He heard gasps and chuckles around him, but he remained unaffected, his eyes upturning to meet a field of green. Dean.  
  
“You-” The freckle faced man began, before Dr. Milton quickly headed over, heels clicking against white floors as she approached.   
  
Castiel continued to stare, his eyes unblinking. He didn't understand why Dean took such offense to him. His fractured soul told him to get up. To wrap his hands around Dean's throat and squeeze until he seen the lights go out in those pretty leafy greens, but honestly, he couldn't be bothered, his pure soul winning this round.  
  
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Dean exclaimed, causing the attention of the other patients and even worse, the code team to be averted over to them.  
  
Castiel watched the interaction between Dr. Milton and Dean, who seemed personally stung by Cas' actions. For a man who didn't like being stared at, Dean sure did stare a lot.   
  
Cas' hands remained placed on his lap, his head only tilting slightly as Dr. Milton went on to explain that there was nothing wrong with him. That in itself was rather laughable, as there was clearly an ocean of issues and disorders Castiel was burdened with, but he could appreciate her standing up for him. She always did.   
  
Dean didn't seem so convinced, though. Kudos to him for realizing something was not quite right with the brunette, but it didn't earn him any brownie points as far as Castiel was concerned. He still hated Dean, he hated his face, his voice, his existence, though his face would never show it.  
  
“I'd like a word with you.” Dr. Milton said firmly.  
  
“Talk then.” Retorted Dean.  
  
“Privately.”   
  
Castiel's fractured soul rolled his eyes when Dean warned him that he wasn't done with him. What did Cas care? Dean wasn't the first inmate to try and break him. Crowley tried. A disgusting serial rapist named Alistair had tried. Therapists had tried. He was unbreakable.   
  
It should have bothered him when he watched as Dr. Milton led Dean away, knowing they were going to talk about him. But it didn't. His eyes followed the pair as they disappeared, feeling more or less impassive about the whole scenario.  
  
He finally tore his gaze away and started the task of rearranging the game pieces, setting them up in an orderly fashion. The green pegs with the green side of the board. The red with the red side. Blue with blue and yellow with yellow. He also took the liberty of neatly stacking the cards, feeling internally triumphant for the good job, though now he was left feeling bored and restless.  
  
Thankfully, his dilemma was solved with the irritating static of the announcement system, a man's voice stating that room checks were through, and patients were free to head back to their room should they want to.  
  
Of course, Castiel wanted to so he stood, neatly pushing his chair back in, paying no mind to the other patients who were either watching TV, chatting animatedly, or engaging in activities to one another as he headed out of the room, walking down that damn unsettling stretch of hallway until he was in the safe confines of his white room, his book resting in the middle of his neatly made bed.   
  
The only rules during free hour was doors weren't allowed closed and a patient wasn't allowed to take a nap. So with that, Cas walked over to his bed, running his hand over a ripple in his blanket, smoothing it down to perfection before sitting down.   
  
He just happened to look up as he heard a pair of footsteps come down to his end of the hall. The room directly across from his was vacant after a patient offed himself, Castiel witnessing the entire thing as he was reading one day.   
  
From his room he could see the bed of the one across from his, and when doors were shut for the night, the small, rectangle shaped window decorating that damn white door peered into the matching one of the door across from his, allowing him and the former patient to stare at each other through the small glass shape.   
  
He cocked his head to the side as he heard the soft, lullaby-like voice of Dr. Milton, obviously speaking to the patient who would be taking over the dreaded “suicide room.”  
  
“Now, this is going to be your room. Once you have proven you can be trusted you will be granted the privilege of keeping books, magazines, letters, stuff of the sort in with you. You are not to bring any food, cutlery, items from the rec area, or medication into your room. I expect you to stay civil or you will have to stay in solitary confinement.”   
  
Of course, Cas already knew the rules. They weren't news to him and he could hear a male voice scoff at all the them.   
  
“You didn't say no chicks. Maybe you'd like to spend the night with me, huh, Dr. Milton?” He heard the voice reply.  
  
That voice.  
  
That fucking voice.  
  
Out of all the patients in the hospital, who would get the room directly across from his?  
  
Dean fucking Winchester.

 


	5. Settling In.

Dean had concluded that after spending full, proper week at Lawrence State Hospital, a day in the life of a mental patient at a psychiatric institution went as follows:

 

Lying awakened, from just after six am most mornings, in an uncomfortable, almost too small bed, underneath the scratchy white covers, wishing the sleeping pills he’d taken the night before lasted a hell of a lot longer than they actually did.

Had he been told that waking up that early everyday would be normal occurrence, he would have called them fucking crazy.

However, that being said, the institution was, and always would be in Dean’s opinion, eerily quiet at that hour of the morning. The only sounds were the soft snores coming from three doors down, and the whirr of something mechanical. Though, Dean wasn’t quite sure what – it might have just been his imagination.

At seven, Rebecca would arrive with her far too cheery smile, singing his praises about how well he was starting to look and how much more rested he seemed. She’d float around his room, doing her usual checks, before shooing him out with his clean clothes to get a shower and wash up for the day.

 

This was where he’d usually meet up with his two favourite teddy bears, but they had now been dismissed from watching his every move constantly. Dr. Milton had figured Dean wasn’t going to hurt anyone. _She figured that_. Dean didn’t like the way she thought she knew him.

 

By seven thirty, he’d be taking his seat in the cafeteria with a bowl of soggy looking cereal. He didn’t have anyone he would have called a friend in here yet, but Benny – the guy that had drained seven guys of blood and bagged it for purposes he wasn’t entirely sure off – had taken a shine to him. So they normally sat together.

 

After this, the stable patients are taken away to do their daily chores. Dean was apparently one of these people, so he’d mope around his room, making his bed and tidying up what little possessions he was allowed in his room - which wasn’t all that much. He’d only been here a week, after all.

 

He thought maybe he’d kick up shit someday so he wouldn’t have to do this anymore, but Dean had always kind of liked keeping himself and his belongings tidy and organised.

 

This characteristic had stretched to how he’d run the business after John had passed away. Everything he did, every job he or his loyal followers took part in, was taken on with perfect precision – like his father had taught him. These things should be kept on top off. That way, most of the work was already done.

 

If he didn’t plan every move he made down to a ‘T’, cover his tracks, and think ahead, he’d get caught and threw in the slammer. Simple as that.

 

Dean guessed that mind set wasn’t exactly fool-proof either, given the fact he was, indeed, in a mental institution.

 

When he’d finished with his room, he’d usually find himself staring out his tiny window onto the corridor; the tiny window with a perfect view of Castiel’s room.

 

After his talk with Dr. Milton, Dean had been observing silently. He’d been watching the other man with a curiosity he wasn’t sure he had in him. _Why_ was he so quiet?

 

Dean had learned that Castiel was intense in everything that he did. If he didn’t feel like doing something, he simply wouldn’t do it. A simple shake of his head would cut the nurses off mid sentence.

 

Truth be told, Dean kind of wanted to see him go into one of these rage fits he seemed to be famous for. He wanted to assess further what the guy was truly capable off.

 

But then would come the dreaded group meeting where Dean was forced into getting involved in those stupid esteem building games. Today’s topic happened to be “combating negative thoughts” where they were supposed to call out something negative and then counteract it with three positive things.

 

Castiel didn’t partake.

 

It was frustrating. Dean called him out again, “It’s not fair. I don’t particularly wanna play the stupid game either, but I’ve still gotta sit here and tell you that I don’t totally feel like going fucking bananas today! Positive enough, for you?”

 

After lunch, and their vital signs had been taken, they’d all sit down to some bullshit movie or have a group reading session, where Charlie would read to them from the big book for loony-bins, that was supposed to preach life lessons and why you shouldn’t murder people, or you’ll end up in a place just like this!

 

At four o’clock it was time for any visitors the people in here might have had. Granted, there weren’t that many, but this was the week Dean’s little brother decided to grace him with his presence.

 

He was brought up to a new room by the code team who’d get to sit in on the whole experience, which was a shame. Dean had a few in depth questions about how the business was coping without him.

 

Sam was his usual smiley, glowing, self, befriending at least three of the nurses before he’d even got his ass to a seat in this room that was supposed to resemble a living room.

 

There were two sofas and a coffee table between them. Two windows, lacy curtains pulled back at either side. Christ, they’d even gone to the bother of putting up picture frames with generic smiling couples and their two kids. Dean wondered why the fuck they’d went to the bother. Was this supposed to make him forget he was in a crazy house? It was doing anything but.

 

Dean made a point of spreading out on his sofa, lying his head back on the arm rest with a tired groan. Sam seemed unamused by his antics, shooting an apologetic look at the code team, who were their usual unbothered selves.

 

“How are you, Dean?”

 

“Fantastic.” Dean answered dryly, pushing his hair back of off his forehead lazily. “How’re you, little brother?”

 

Sam gave him a look, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Can you not be an obnoxious dick for ten seconds and have a normal conversation with me? We only have an hour.”

 

“That’s plenty of time for me to have a normal conversation _and_ be a dick.”

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean groaned and sat up with a sigh. “What do you want me to say, Sammy? I’m tired. I’ve been up since six am.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Getting institutionalized…” He joked, shaking his head with a light laugh. “How is everything?” At this point, Dean changed the subject. Sam being Sam would want to start into one of those feeling’s talks Dean hated so much.

 

Plus, he actually was curious to know what was going on with the business. He could trust his brother to be delicate with the matter too, knowing Dean didn’t like sharing such personal information with just anyone. This was why having an audience wasn’t ideal.

 

“Broke up after you went inside.”

 

“What?” Dean exclaimed suddenly, eyes going wide.

 

“Dean, there was no one willing to take on what you did. You’d have to be-”

 

Sam was not just about to go there, was he? Dean’s lips parted, bemused smile on his lips.

 

“Crazy?”

 

“Yes.” Sam admitted after a second, staring at Dean with those big puppy dogs. They’d have been an excellent asset to the team had Sam not refused to join. That had broken their father’s heart. But looking back, Dean was glad his little brother had had the sense to stay out. Otherwise they might have been room mates right now.

 

Dean, however, was feeling incredibly deflated upon hearing that news. Everything he and his father had worked for was gone. They’d built up the reputation from the ground, to the point where people got scared of saying the name ‘Winchester’ case it should summon one of them.

 

He must have seemed out of it because the next thing Sam was singing his name, clicking his fingers to bring his attention back. Dean looked up at him with a frown, but it disappeared after a second when he saw his brother smiling warmly at him.

 

“Earth to Dean.” He chuckled, making Dean roll his eyes slightly. For a serial killer, he had a real soft spot for this guy. “I asked if you’d made any friends.”

 

“Nah, not really. It’s not exactly day care, Sammy.” Dean reminded him with a puff.

 

“I was actually reading up about this place. Did you know it’s been known for housing some of Americas most wanted criminals?”

 

Could have fucking fooled Dean, but he just hummed and nodded, seeming to be interested.

 

“So, guess if you’ve made no friends, you’ve made no enemies either?”

 

“Not really – there is this one nut case though,” Dean started with a laugh, sitting forward in his chair as he went to launch into the story. “Really pensive guy, right? Would stare a hole right fuckin’ through you – Hey, what do you call Castiel’s last name?” He asked, leaning over the sofa suddenly to look at the big guys, leaning at either side of the door.

 

“Novak.”

 

“-Right. Castiel Novak. Thinks he’s the dogs balls, but I’ve been trying to stare him out. It’s really getting on that crazy bitch Milton’s nerves, but it’s the most fun I’ve had since I got here.” Dean hadn’t told a story with such enthusiasm in a very long time, and when he realised this, he was very surprised at himself. But Sam didn’t seem to be responding the way Dean had expected him too. “You’re allowed to react-”

 

“Castiel Novak?” He repeated. Dean nodded.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Castiel Novak - murdered his whole family, then went on a four day killing spree before getting picked up?”

 

Dean sat speechless for a moment. Not many things rendered a guy like Dean speechless, but here he was.

 

After a moment of watching his brother, trying to find the lie in his features, he managed to get his tongue working again. “What? How do you know that?”

 

Sam gave him a tight lipped smile. “Dean, it was all over the news. It happened years ago!”

 

“I don’t remember that.”

 

“That’s because you were doing you own fair share of killing at the time.” Sam deadpanned, shaking his head. “In all seriousness, dude, don’t torment the guy. Don’t torment anyone in here. You’re all here for a very good reason.”

 

“Why are you lumping me in with them? You think I belong here?” Dean narrowed his eyes as he pointed to himself, just to make doubly sure his brother was talking about him. But Sam just sighed.

 

“Dean-”

 

“Oh fuck, not you too.”

 

“You do belong here.” Sam said with a nod, looking regretful.

 

“I’m not fucking crazy.” Dean bit at him, going to get to his feet, heading over to the door. “I wanna go now.”

 

“Dean, don’t – come back and sit down.” Sam frowned, getting to his feet as well, putting one hand up as a sign of surrender.

 

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Dean asked, turning to look at him with a furrowed brow. “Really?”

 

“I think you need a little help, yes.” Sam nodded. “After the life you’ve lived Dean…All those people you-” His brother swallowed thickly. “No person could have gone through what you did and come out sane.”

 

Dean’s jaw clenched as he lifted his eyes to look out the window. The sun wasn’t out today. It was overcast and kind of windy. Dean could tell by the way the grass was blowing. Maybe he was purposely drowning out the apologies Sam was making. Maybe he was trying to repress the fact that his little brother might have been right.

 

Maybe he _was_ crazy too.

 


	6. Nightmares and outbursts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay my friends, this chapter will delve into Castiel's childhood which admittedly, is pretty shitty. There will be past child abuse in this chapter so if that makes you uncomfortable, just skip this one. It was a necessary evil so you all could get a glimpse into the life this man lived that drove him quite literally to the nut house. Hope you enjoy regardless, even if it's a tough pill to swallow.

_It was a warm, sunny day. Sky cloudless and a small, refreshing breeze wafting through the air, the bright green leaves swaying in the gentle wind. Big, curious blue eyes stared out the small, rectangle shaped window in the dark, cobweb infested confines of the basement in his family home, longing to feel the sun warm his sickly white skin, to feel the fresh mowed grass beneath his bare feet, to run and play tag with chubby faced friends like a normal 6 year old. He was broken out of his daydream with the slam of the basement door, the sound of heavy boots thudding down the rotting wooden stairs._

 

“ _Castiel!”  
  
It was daddy, and daddy sounded angry.  
  
Castiel turned around and quickly hopped off the old crates he had been using to reach the window, attempting to make himself look anything but guilty, but it was too late. Daddy had seen him.   
  
Like the monster he frequently saw in his dreams, daddy stormed over to him and before he had a chance to climb down himself, slipped a hand into his overgrown dark brown hair, curling his fingers around it and giving it a sharp yank until Castiel's little body went flying off of the crates, falling to the dirty, concrete floor with a sickening thump.   
  
He lay on the floor, holding the back of his head where it connected with the unforgiving floor, tears starting to stream down his dirty cheeks.   
  
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you? Are you fucking retarded?” Daddy's angry voice boomed, sounding like thunder.  
  
Before Cas could open his mouth for a reply, a foot connected with his frail ribs, knocking the breath right out of him.  
  
As he fought for breath, another pair of softer footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs to investigate.  
  
Mommy.  
  
Castiel watched with tear blurred eyes as she approached, a sigh passing her lips.   
  
“M-mommy..” Castiel croaked, a sob erupting from his chest.   
  
Castiel always daydreamed that one day mommy would pick him up and take him from the basement, wrap him up in her arms and take him away. Away from daddy and big brother Michael. She never did, though.  
  
She put a hand on daddy's shoulder and gave him a stern look.   
  
“I thought we agreed, no beatings. Child services are coming in a couple of days. If we want to keep getting a check for him, we can't let them suspect anything.” Mommy said, voice soothing and reassuring. He wished she would talk to him like that.  
  
“And you,” She started, crouching on the floor in front of her injured child, taking his tear stained face in her hand, fingers digging painfully in his cheeks, “are not to breath a fucking word of this to the social worker, you hear me? If she asks if you're happy, you say yes. If you tell her the truth, daddy will kill you and your little school friend Balthazar, you hear me you little shit?”  
Castiel whimpered and nodded, mommy pushing him away before standing back up, kissing daddy wetly on the mouth. The sight made Cas' tummy hurt.   
  
“If your teacher asks why you have bruises, you tell her you fell off your bike, got it?” Daddy said after the kiss, looking at Cas with hate filled eyes. “And you'll be sleeping down here, in the dark, for disobeying. I catch you looking out the window again, and you'll get it ten times worse.”  
  
Again Cas nodded, his little bottom lip trembling. His “bedroom” wasn't much better than the basement, as he was made to sleep in the closet and not the bed set up so child services wouldn't get suspicious, but at least there wasn't spiders in there, and he could sleep on a pile of dirty clothes. Here, he was given to blankets, no pillows. Just cold concrete.   
  
Those same blue eyes watched as mommy and daddy walked away, pounding up the stairs and closing the door with a slam.  
  
_*  
  
Castiel shot up in his bed, body sweat soaked, heart pounding in his chest. Another fucking dream. His pure soul was heartbroken at the fuzzy sleep induced memory. How could his parents have been so heartless? What had he ever done to warrant that kind of constant punishment? His fractured soul cackled, though. He might have been put through hell. Dealt with abuse his entire life. But he got the last laugh. Seeing the look of pure and utter fear as he took the lives of his brother and parents made him feel strangely satisfied, like he had just aced a test or came in first place during track.  
  
He turned his head and looked out the small window of his room, before quickly averting his eyes. His pure soul still felt like if he was caught looking outside, he would be gravely punished. It was a fear that had never disappeared since childhood.   
  
They could pump him full of meds, they could stick him in therapy, but Castiel knew he would never fully be comfortable looking out a window again, not having done so for a longer than a moment since that beating in the basement.   
  
Judging from the darkness in the sky, Cas assumed it was probably around 3 or so in the morning. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaling the negative feelings he was having before opening his eyes again and grabbing the hem of his now damp shirt and tugging it over his head, using it to wipe the sweat from his brow.   
  
Nightmares like the one he had just suffered through were not uncommon, but they were easy enough to get over by now.   
  
After his murder spree his nightmares would render him into a state of panic, often needing to be sedated for the safety of himself and the staff assigned to watch him, as they believed him to be “suicide risk.”   
  
Despite the crippling nightmares, though, and the raging battle between his two halves of his soul, one begging him to feel remorse, and the other giving him a mental high five for a job well done, he never felt the need to intentionally harm himself. Of course, during an outburst he was prone to hurting himself, whether it was yanking his own hair out, punching himself or even hitting his head off of an object or scratching his skin until it bled, but it was never done when he was in his right mind. Well, as right of mind as someone with his abundance of issues has.  
  
The nightmares became bearable about a year after the murders. They still woke him and though his body went into panic mode, he was easily able to calm himself down, he, his pure soul and his fractured soul all agreeing that he needed to be able to get a handle of himself, as he didn't appreciate the constant peering in his room by the suicide watch team.  
  
Castiel folded his now ruined shirt up neatly, leaning over the side of his bed and setting it on the floor before sitting back up, tilting his head from side to side to crack his neck. Once his heartrate calmed, he laid back down, pulling the his blanket up to his neck, cocooning himself in it as his eyes slipped shut, thankfully slipping into a dreamless slumber.  
  
*  
  
The next day was a dreary one. He woke up feeling less than well rested, and to top it off, it was storming outside, the loud cracks of thunder sending the other patients into a panic. Some claiming it was God coming for them, others sitting in the corner, hands over the ears, and others soaking in the chaos, a handful having to be sedated for relentlessly tormenting the scared and paranoid patients.  
  
Cas rather liked the sound of thunder, the flash of lightening. But that was only when he was in the safety of his room at night, when he could listen to it like a lullaby and allow his pure soul to imagine what it would be like to feel the rain pour down on his skin, to inhale that unique scent that rain seemed to carry with it.   
  
But, during the day, he hated storms. He hated them because the patients ruined them for him.   
  
Breakfast was terrible and all morning Dean had been following him, trying to get a reaction out of him.   
  
Dr. Milton was off sick, and they were stuck with Dr. Zachariah Adler, who forced him to eat, threatening to throw him into solitary if he didn't. It was after that incident when he started to feel off. A storm much like the one outside brewing inside him.  
  
It was during free time when the weekly bedroom sweeps took place again, and though it was just adding more fuel to the fire, he focused on staying calm, walking over to the table with the “Sorry” game and taking a seat, staring down at the board.   
  
It wasn't long though until he had a visitor.   
  
Dean Winchester sauntered on over and leaned against the table, staring cockily down at him, those green eyes burning holes into his fucking head.   
  
“Heya, Cas. You miss me?” Dean quipped, lips curving into a smile.  
  
Castiel simply stared at him, though his fractured soul kept whispering “hurt him, hurt him. He's evil. Like your daddy.”  
  
“Fuck, anyone ever tell you that you're a freak?” Dean continued.   
  
Still, Castiel remained stoic even though his fists began to clench under the table.   
  
“You know what? Fuck you and fuck your stupid game. Big boy can kill mommy and daddy but can't fucking open his mouth to-”   
  
Everything went black after that for Cas as he got up so quick from his chair that it sent it toppling over, putting his hands on the underside of the table and flipping it over before lunging at Dean, knocking the larger boy to the ground, his hands wrapping around his throat.  
  
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, mother fucker! I'm going to kill you! I'm going to make you fucking beg for your life and then I'm going to slaughter you!” He yelled, hands tightening around Dean's neck as the code team sprang to action, rushing over and grabbing Cas by the arms, hauling him up as he kicked his feet frantically, his head thrashing from side to side.  
  
“I'm going to kill you! I'm going to kill all of you!” He exclaimed, not even feeling the sharp prick of the needle in his arm before his fight slowly left him, his body eventually going limp in the code team's arms.   
  
It wasn't until hours later when he woke up in solitary, surrounded by white padded walls and throat sore from using his voice after all this time.   
  
Leave it to Dean to make his good spell come to an end. __  



	7. Temper, Temper.

When Dean’s back hit the laminated floor of the rec room he knew he’d made a mistake that day.

 

Because Dr. Milton had been off sick, he’d decided rather quickly that today was going to be the day Castiel Novak had his little episode - and now that Dean had some background information, getting a rise out of him would surely be much easier.

 

His father had always told him to value what he knew about people – to use the information wisely. He’d always found it to be much better tactic than holding a gun to said persons head.

 

It was amazing what people would do to ensure another person’s trust.

 

But Castiel was off his rocker, so Dean knew that taunting him with what he knew would get that lash out that Dean had been seeking since he got there.

 

However, why he was itching to see what would happen when Castiel was pushed to his limits, he really wasn’t sure.

 

The whole event seemed to happen in slow motion. Dean’s head hit the floor hard, hardly giving him a chance to blink before the other boy had straddled him and took no time in squeezing the life right out of him. Dean’s hands came up with a wince, trying desperately to unlock the vice like grip, but it wasn’t doing any good.

 

Though the blue eyed boy looked frail under his institute issued uniform, that seriously wasn’t the case. The guy was strong – really strong. His fingers around Dean’s neck were tight; so tight his air was cut off with one hard squeeze. Dean kicked his legs and jerked his hips with an attempt to get Castiel the fuck off him, but the boy was stuck on him, crushing his windpipe with machine like strength, blue eyes ablaze with fury and a lifetime of stowed anger.

 

When Castiel was finally yanked away and sedated, it seemed like hours had passed. Dean lay gasping on the ground, both Charlie and Rebecca trying to sit him up and open his airways again, doing what they could to stop him from going into a shock or a panic of his own.

 

But Dean didn’t get shocked or panicked. He just sat on the ground wheezing thickly, watching the heavy, limp body getting carried away.

 

So that’s why people pandered around Castiel Novak.

 

*

 

After that, Dean and Castiel weren’t allowed to see each other for a while.

 

When Dr. Milton got back she was furious that no one had been supervising Dean, which kind of irked him because he didn’t fucking need babysitting.

 

He’d been the ringleader of a very powerful mafia, for Christ’s sakes; one that his father had built from the ground.

 

God, he missed those days. He missed the respect, the power, the money – the people he had at his beck and call for whatever he felt like that day… No, it wasn’t the life for everyone, but it was absolutely the life he was born to lead.

 

The transition from that, to living in a crazy house, was not one Dean was coping with all too well – and now with no Castiel to get a rise out off, he was bored out of his mind most days.

 

Of course, he had his personal therapy sessions with Dr. Milton, where Dean would tell her in great detail about the old days and the robberies and the hostages – the ones that lived and the ones he murdered – he’d tell her about his brother, the lawyer, and how he’d never wanted a part in the business.

 

But what Dean didn’t understand was why he’d ended up in an institution as opposed to death row. Surely he wasn’t that bat shit crazy to avoid getting strung up?

 

According to Dr. Milton, the answer to that was simple. He was lost in the confines of a personality disorder, depression and a constant, never ending flurry of hope he’d someday be as good as his father. A flurry of hope that had turned into an obsession.

 

“ _Did your father praise you as a child, Dean?”_

 

“ _Why would he?”_

 

“ _Did he look after you?”_

 

“ _He did when he could.”_

 

“ _Would you say your father was proud of you?”_

 

Dean didn’t like the way Dr. Milton was putting his father down. So, he’d kindly asked her to _‘give it a fucking rest,’_ and she’d stopped, which he was quite grateful for.

 

*

 

About a week later, Dean was reintroduced to Castiel with Dr. Milton standing between the two of them like they’d just had a fight in the school yard.

 

Dean was smiling smugly, arms folded against his chest as he watched Castiel closely. What happened before had in no way, shape or form made Dean feel intimidated around the guy. No, it had encouraged him now to find out more. What _else_ could Castiel possibly do?

 

One thing Dean did notice, after haven been separated from him for so long, was how tired he looked. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. His skin was paler than usual. That sex head of hair just wouldn’t be tamed. And if Dean was honest with himself, he’d say the look really suited him.

 

Dr. Milton sat them both down at the same table, letting them know that a civil understanding would at least have to be reached if they were going to be living under the one roof, and any funny business would lead to an immediate sedation.

 

Castiel had started arranging the bored pieces, having gone back to his usual stoic self by now. Dean sat back in his chair and watched him, finding a sort of peace in the organisation of the colours.

 

“So, why did you do it?” Dean asked him, not having the capacity for small talk. But of course, he didn’t receive an answer. “C’mon, Cas buddy, let me hear those throaty tones one more time. Why’d you kill your folks?”

 

Castiel looked up at him, blue eyes hooded and tired looking. He shook his head once, going back to the bored. It was some form of conversation at least.

 

“We’re gonna be stuck here together for a very long time. You understand that, right?” Dean said slowly, making sure Cas understood what he was saying. “That little stunt you pulled,” He shrugged “doesn’t bother me in the slightest. You’re not the first person that’s threatened to murder me, angel.”

 

Castiel watched him with the same expression.

 

“So, I’ve got a proposition for you.” Dean spoke quietly, tapping the ‘Sorry!’ board as he spoke. “You tell me what your deal is and I’ll leave you alone.”

 

Castiel breathed sharply out of his nose. Dean took it for amusement.

 

“I don’t need to throw tantrums to be scary, sweetheart.” Dean caught his eye again, face turning thunderous. “I wanna know what type of person it takes to be able to kill their own family.”

 

Honestly, Dean was intrigued. How someone could warrant something like that. It checked yet another ‘ _not crazy_ ’ point off his own list because it took insane to be able to murder the ones you love.

 

When Castiel remained silent once more, Dean shook his head. “Why don’t you just talk? What’s stopping you? You’d no problem tellin’ me you were gonna slaughter me the other day. What’s wrong with a simple yes – hell, I’ll settle for a nod right now.”

 

Dean wondered why he was still surprised when the other boy’s lips still remained sealed.

 

“Okay. I don’t mind doing things the hard way.” Dean pursed his lips. “I can tell you what I think and you can tell me if I’m hot or cold, hmm?”

 

No answer.

 

“Alright, now you’re talkin’!” Dean mocked with a wide smile, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he tried to work Castiel out from the stony expression he was sporting. “Let’s see…couldn’t be just because they failed to give you pocket money that one time…” He hummed, drinking in Castiel’s emotionless features. “Were they bad to you, buddy?” He patronised. “Your daddy beat you, Cas?-”

 

Just like that, in a complete whirlwind of flying coloured ‘Sorry!’ pegs and cardboard, Dean was thrown this time up against the wall, heavy fist curled at the collar of his shirt. But this time, Dean wasn’t gonna let Castiel over power him. No, this time he was ready.

 

As the code team rushed over, Dean lifted his knee and brought it to Castiel’s stomach, pushing him back when his hands released their grip just enough for him to take advantage.

 

The two of them only got squaring up to each other for a matter of seconds, Dean’s hand tight around Castiel’s jaw as he brought his face so close their noses almost banged together.

 

“You fuckin’ threaten to kill me again, you crazy son of a bitch, I’ll end you, just like you ended you sweet daddy-”

 

“You try it, motherfucker, I’ll stick a knife in your back the minute you shut your eyes-”

 

When the two were pulled apart, all it took was for Dr. Milton to come between them, breaking their eye contact. Dean was waiting to feel the dead weight of sleep to overcome him, but it never did.

 

Castiel still thrashed relentlessly in the code team’s arms as they tried to hold him down to sedate him, some of the other patients wailing with freight, covering their ears. Some of the more hyped up ones hollering and jumping around, until the nurses came to settle them.

 

“Dean-”

 

“You don’t scare me, buddy.” Dean barked over her, trying to look around at Castiel who was trying to rip his way free from the strong arms of the code team.

 

“Dean!”

 

Dean snapped his gaze down to her, upper lip twitching slightly.

 

“You see what you’ve started yet again? Are you happy you’re disturbing my inmates? I’m going to file for a transfer.”

 

Dean laughed loudly, head tilting back before he reeled back to look at her again. “I don’t fucking care where you send me. Don’t you get that? I don’t fucking care anymore. I’d rather be on death row – at least then I’d die with a little dignity.” He yelled. At that point the room went silent again as Castiel was finally put out, the two guys at either side of him giving a heavy puff to one and other.

 

And when he looked down at his own arm he saw the same fluid being pumped into him. He hated this place.

 

*

 

As it turned out, Dr. Milton didn’t send for a transfer for Dean. He was worse than she’d initially thought. So, she’d simply upped both his and Castiel’s medication to the point they’d both be sitting in a daze together in the rec room, staring out the window onto the green pitch.

 

Dean’s problem was that he had no idea he was mentally unstable. His confidence – or his previous issues with certain family members - wouldn’t let him believe he was the one with the problem. No one that came from John Winchester could be flawed.

 

Of course, this new increase of medication was only supposed to be a temporary measure, the pill intake would lessen when the two of them became more accustomed to being around each other without wanting to kill the other.

 

Sometimes Dean would look at Castiel with narrowed eyes and parted lips, knowing there was something he was supposed to be saying but he wasn’t quite sure what. His head always seemed like it was full of candyfloss or clouds these days. Castiel just seemed like he was good at riding the waves of this high – or simply used to it.

 

“How did we get here, Cas?” He’d ask when he could form words, head feeling heavy on his shoulders, so perhaps he’d been dreaming when he’d heard a soft _“You know,”_ in reply.

 


End file.
